


celle de ton couer

by a_static_world



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Getting Together, Les Mis - Freeform, M/M, Modern Era, Short Grantaire, Smut, and idiots, enjoltaire - Freeform, kind of?, tall enjolras, theyre. in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Enjolras is tall. Much too tall for Grantaire’s liking- or is he?Or,Enjolras slips up, Grantaire gets flustered, and they both speak French.
Relationships: Enjolras & Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Les Amis de l'ABC, Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 101





	celle de ton couer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Quick note, there is a fair amount of french in this fic. I’ll leave translations in the bottom notes, but please tell me if I’ve made a mistake as I used google translate for the majority of this. Enjoy!

Enjolras was  _ tall.  _ He was stupid and beautiful and dumb and  _ tall _ and damn him, but Grantaire couldn’t stop staring. Didn’t want to, if he was honest. He disguised it under a drunken glower, chin propped on the bottle he was nursing, eyes tracking Enj’s beat-up red sweatshirt back and forth across the bar.

It was Tuesday, and he and his cadre (affectionately called L’Amis) were getting  _ hammered.  _

Even Saint Enjolras himself held a bottle, the neck loose in his palm as he trekked the bar and oh, wouldn’t Grantaire like that hand somewhere else. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had long since passed out in a corner, mouths open to each and every (increasingly off-trajectory) balled-up straw wrapper thrown their way. Joly and Bahorel were commiserating with Jehan on his fresher’s exams, and Feuilly and Grantaire sat and sulked, as was customary. Marius and Cosette were already back at Marius’ dorm, either sleeping or “studying.” _ Just another Tuesday.  _ He lifted the bottle to his lips, caught Jehan’s eye, and did something  _ very _ dirty to the rim to make the younger boy laugh. 

“Don’t say I never gave a damn,” he grumbled good-naturedly to Feuilly, too buzzed and too exhausted to see that, across the crowded Musain bar, Enjolras had gone stock still. 

Wednesdays were their official meeting days; Tuesday nights merely a competition to see who could nurse the most impressive hangover the next day and piss Enjolras off the most. Unsurprisingly, Grantaire usually won. Oh, Bahorel and L’aigle could give him a run for his money, but nobody succeeded in getting under Enjolras’ skin quite like Grantaire. 

“So,  _ beau saint _ , what’ve we got this week?”  _ Beau saint _ was a recent acquisition in Grantaire’s arsenal of “piss-Enj-off” phrases. It kept good company there, amongst  _ petit chou  _ and  _ Apollo _ and  _ joli garçon.  _ He laughed as Enjolras turned bright red, quickly stifling it as the taller man stalked to his corner table.  _ Oh, shit.  _

“Sorry, Enj, just slipped out. For real, what’s up this week?”

Grantaire knew when to push, and today was clearly not a pushing day. Whether due to the fact that Enjolras actually drank on Musain Tuesday or something completely else, his magnanimous leader seemed to have something else on his mind. 

Not that Grantaire has spent enough time studying Enjolras to know his tells. Absolutely not that.

Enjolras took a breath. 

“This week the aim of L’Amis is to help clean up the...” 

And then Grantaire was lost, swept up in the way Enjolras could command a room, every eye trained on him like they were being briefed for a battle. If fighting river pollution and working soup kitchens were battles, Grantaire was damn sure L’Amis would win. L’Amis- his idea, the name. They’d been huddled over a single table, on a Musain Tuesday before they were Musain Tuesday’s, desperately trying to pick a name for their newly-founded groupchat. Grantaire, on the border between coherent and wasted, piped up from the back corner, alcohol and memories clouding his breath. Raised in Toulon, he was one of two Amis who spoke French besides  _ je m'appelle  _ and  _ oui _ and  _ s'il vous plaît.  _ (Enjolras, of course, with his perfect dumb face and fancy education, was the other.)

“What about L’Amis,” he’d crowed. And now that he thinks about it, maybe that was when he fell in love with Enjolras, because his answering smile forced sunlight straight into Grantaire’s drunken, decrepit soul. 

“Grantaire,  _ I said _ , are you  _ listening _ ?” 

Grantaire flinched, hard. Raised his face up to that of Apollo himself, every line in his heavenly visage creased with frustration. 

“Yeah, shit, I was listening,  _ amour.  _ River cleanup this week, right? Shit, you’re tall.” 

“Would you prefer me on my knees?”

_ Oh, sainte mère de dieu, sainte merde, ce que la baise.  _

_ Merde.  _

Enjolras  _ froze _ , stiffened like it was him and not Combeferre who’d been tased a few weeks back, and stumbled. Grantaire felt himself grin, reached out on autopilot. 

“Hey,  _ beau saint, _ easy,  _ ça va _ ,  _ je promets. _ ” Apparently his brain wasn’t functioning enough to form an english fucking sentence, but Enjolras seemed to collect himself, turning back to the rest of the Amis, who were quietly chatting and pretending like nothing had just happened. 

“Apollo,  _ amour _ ,  _ Détends-toi, je ne m’en souviendrai pas demain, de toute façon. _ ” He said it low and dirty, enough to spark interest in the rest of the Amis, but it was enough to get Enjolras all the way relaxed again. It was a lie, of course, because would  _ anyone _ forget the time that the leader of infamous student charity project  _ Les Amis de l’ABC,  _ lust of the campus, local god Enjolras had  _ propositioned them _ ? Frankly fucking not, Grantaire assumed, and leaned back in his chair to let the rest of Enjolras’ speech wash over him. After the meeting was done, he made the rounds, kissed cheeks, promised to meet them Thursday after classes for river cleanup. Shot Enj a wink, the leader resolutely staring down the wall behind him, and took his leave. 

_ I need a fucking cigarette _ . So he pulled one out, safely stashed in the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket, out of sight of asthmatic Jehan and concerned Amis. Smoked it down to the filter on the walk home. Grantaire had made a rule for himself, that he’d never smoke in his dorm, but tonight he fucking  _ needed  _ it. So he cracked a window, wincing as the joints squealed, and sat, smoked, thought. Ordered a pizza. He was midway through his third cigarette when someone pounded on his door. 

“ _ Mon dieu _ , I’m coming, jesus that was fast-“

It was Apollo, standing sheepishly outside, flushed and panting like he’d run there.  _ Run _ . For him. So he pulled the door open, nodded dumbly at the other man to enter, cigarette still dangling from his lips. Sat down on his couch, heavy, making the old frame squeak indignantly. 

“ _ Merde _ , Enj, let me put this out, where’s the fucking, the  _ cendrier-“ _

“R, it’s okay, I don’t mind, I just. Came to tell you something.” 

Grantaire couldn’t even argue. How could he, when the love of his life had just called him  _ R _ , as in  _ ‘aire _ , as in a pet name, maybe, holy shit. He stopped breathing entirely as all 6’3 of Enjolras made his way over, plucked the cigarette neatly from his mouth, and stuck it in the-  _ ashtray _ . That’s the word. 

Stopped breathing  _ more _ , if that was possible, as Enjolras sank to his knees, now at eye level with Grantaire. 

“Honestly, Enj,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’d find this demeaning if I wasn’t so-“

And then Enjolras’ lips were on his, and Grantaire knew he tasted like cigarettes, which was gross, but Apollo was licking into his mouth like he didn’t care, and  _ he  _ tasted like beer and honey and apples and Grantaire  _ moaned _ for it, felt Enj’s mouth curve sharp and wicked against his, and this is what dying felt like. This was it, this was Grantaire’s personal hell, it had to be a trick because now Enjolras’ hands are on his thighs, his biceps, pulling him to his feet and  _ picking him up _ and Grantaire’s locking his legs around Enjolras’ middle and he’s backed against the wall and  _ holy shit.  _ Enjolras’ shirt is off, somehow, and Grantaire traces his fingers, butterfly-light, over his pecs, down to his abs, through his happy-trail and back up, draws lines up to his jaw, settles his hands in those golden goddamn curls. Dips his mouth to Enjolras’ perfect nipple just to feel him tense, feel his heart beat fast under his lips. Tugs on a curl, testing, and feels the thud reverberate through him as Apollo tips his head back against the wall, making an absolutely, beautifully  _ obscene _ noise, and that’s it, they’re taking this to the bedroom right fucking now. 

Which Grantaire says-growls-whines, in as many words. 

So they go, Enjolras carrying Grantaire through the tiny dorm, placing him on the bed, and finally- _ finally- _ getting on his knees. 

Grantaire almost comes, right then and there, at the sight of his  _ beau saint _ undoing his jeans with one hand while touching Grantaire’s thighs, his chest, his abs with the other. And then it’s Enjolras’ mouth, his tongue, petal-soft and rough all at once, and it’s better than Grantaire could ever imagine,  _ has _ ever imagined, back when it was just him and his hand and a tub of vaseline, which will  _ definitely _ be making an appearance later. 

Grantaire understands, then, why the French call it  _ la petite mort _ , because he does feel like he’s dying; he’s flying apart and he thinks he might’ve blacked out and then he’s back together again, and Enjolras’ face is hovering above his, smirking, lips swollen and messy and  _ perfect _ and Grantaire growls, kisses him, flips them over. 

“ _ À ton tour, amour.” _

They laid there, after, sharing a cigarette in the sleepy, sex-scented room. Grantaire felt Enjolras stretch, and his gut clenched. Worry that this was a one-off, the quickest way to blow off steam from whatever had been bugging his  _ joli garçon _ earlier crept into his veins. The feeling dissipated, however, as he felt Enjolras’ hand slide into his, felt a face in the crook of his neck. 

“ _ Permets-tu?”  _

“ _ Pour toi? Bien sûr.” _

**Author's Note:**

> hi here are translations as promised  
> Beau saint, petit chou, joli garçon: beautiful saint, small cabbage, pretty boy  
> Oh, sainte mère de dieu, sainte merde, ce que la baise, merde: oh, holy mother of god, holy shit, what the fuck, shit  
> Ça va, je promets: it’s okay, I promise  
> Détendez-vous, je ne me souviendrai pas de toute façon demain: relax, I won’t remember this tomorrow, anyway  
> À ton tour: your turn  
> Le permettez-vous: do you allow it?  
> Pour vous, bien sûr: for you, of course  
> HI SO THIS IS BASED OFF A PROMPT I FOUND SOMEWHERE  
> “holy shit you’re tall” “would you prefer me on my knees?”  
> and i saw les mis on sunday so i had to write my babies


End file.
